Final Wish
by Timbereads
Summary: The ducklings are finally leaving, and Cameron fulfills the one wish she's had since takin' the gig. [HouseCam, of course. There could be a possible continuation, if thou dost so request]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Ah, another short while I work on procrastinating in updating In The Still Of The Night. Wo0t! Anyways, I've had this one under my belt for a while now, adding and deleting as I saw fit. I'm currently on the fence as to whether or not I should add another chapter or two. The ending just sort of leaves you hanging; I have to decide if I want to be that evil. Let me know in a REVIEW if you think I should continue. I'm annoying like that. Anyways, enjoy, and as always, I don't own nothin'. ::le sigh::

* * *

**Final Wish**

It was a Monday. How fitting, House thought. No one likes Mondays. It would make sense that this was happening on a Monday. Thursday? Well, the effect would be less depressing.

It was finally happening. His little ducklings were leaving the nest. Their fellowships were finished, their paperwork was completed and their new jobs and shiny new offices were waiting patiently for their new occupants. It was enough to make him gag.

Cuddy and Wilson had thrown them a party. A party! He'd never gotten a party. And then there was the fact that basically the entire staff had shown up to wish them well; two cakes, numerous bags of Tostitos and a copious amount of alcohol later and the shindig was still going strong. Cameron was dancing up a storm, accompanied by an extremely tipsy Foreman and his even tipsier girlfriend. Chase had been banished to the crowd forming a circle around the "dance floor" after unsuccessfully trying to teach the nurses the Australian Macarena and failing miserably.

The hours ticked on. The clock struck one. Smirking, House hummed 'Hickory Dickory Doc' to himself as he pictured Cuddy's reaction to a mouse scampering unchecked throughout the halls of the hospital. He knocked back another scotch and ran his eyes over his drunken underlings once more.

Foreman was still his serious, ethical self. He'd been offered a job in the neurology department at Princeton General; House had even reluctantly agreed to write a letter of recommendation. As it turned out, the gesture hadn't been needed. Barely a day after House had managed to type out "Eric Foreman is," the aforementioned had been propositioned by John Hopkins Hospital. Secretly, House had been pissed that Foreman wasn't staying at Princeton, close enough to ensure intelligent input when his new duckies turned out to be complete morons.

He'd never admit that, though.

Chase let out a whoop of laughter as Cameron "went as low as she could go." Other males just drooled. House looked at his glass, his cane, away. Seeing her dance like that made him…made him uncomfortable. He didn't like it.

Robert Chase was going back to Australia at the end of the month. His father's estate had yet to be claimed, and the name Chase had much more clout in the medicine world Down Under than the States. House remembered an exchange between the two of them where Chase had insisted that he was not rich. Secretly, he hoped Father Chase hadn't cut his son out of his will. The kid was a good doctor; he cut corners and held grudges for too long, but he honed his craft.

He'd never admit that, though.

"You are absolutely no fun, man," Wilson exclaimed, sliding into the seat beside House and sloshing his drink over the lip of his glass.

"You are absolutely hammered."

"Point taken."

The diagnostician observed his friend silently. Wilson had long ago ditched his green tie, instead opting for an open collar, revealing a cotton Hanes undershirt. The alcohol had already formed a glaze over his dark eyes, but House could still see some semblance of rational thought twinkling in his irises.

"You're going to miss 'em, aren't you?"

House sighed darkly and choked back the last of his bitter drink. "What makes you say that?"

"The facts that you've yet to insult Chase's shoes once today, and God knows they're ugly. And I know you too well."

"Probably," House agreed, but didn't acknowledge the original statement. Wilson nodded slowly before rising and ambling back to the dance floor.

His eye's fell once more on his female employee. Former employee, he had to remind himself. Her hair was casually swept into a messy ponytail, and occasionally, she would swipe at pieces that fell in her eyes. She was beautiful.

House hated it.

Allison Cameron had already cleared off her desk, and would have been gone that afternoon had Cuddy not stopped her in the hall and informed her of the impromptu party. Never one to turn down an invitation, she'd agreed to stay for the night and drive down to New York the next morning. She'd accepted a position at the New York Presbyterian Hospital's immunology department, though she'd needed some encouraging prods from Foreman and Wilson before she finally gave in and announced that it was time for her to leave Princeton. House had been taken totally off guard.

He'd never admit that, though.

If he were a normal human being, he would have asked her to stay because she was a damn good doctor and he wanted her near by. If he was a normal human being, he would have asked her privately why she was _really_ leaving since he'd known her long enough to have recognized that change was hard for her, and she actually liked the home she'd built for herself in the Garden State. If he were a normal human being, he would have asked her if she was leaving because of him.

But of course, he was not normal.

He had yelled at Wilson for not telling him of Cameron's intents earlier.

House grimaced at the memory and poured himself another tumbler-full of scotch. Damn. The bottle was almost empty. He supposed he'd have to leave when he'd consumed the last drop; nothing else to do here. He knocked back a third of the drink and groaned as another hip-hop beat came blasting through the stereo.

Bah. Humbug.

Two things happened then, with the pounding bass and the misogynist lyrics coursing through the veins of the bodies packed together on the floor. Looking back on it, House reasoned that it was probably the negative effect of rap music on the body politic that caused the occurrences, but he knew that it could be more realistically attributed to too much alcohol and too little "action," if you will.

Firstly, three men closed in on Cameron, who was still writhing to the sounds and completely oblivious to the world around her. One by one, the men tried to grab her hips and pull her to his own, effectively grinding, though onlookers described it as more of a sex-like motion. As such, Cameron was pinned between three thrashing pelvises, each trying to squeeze her closer to himself. People around her were too caught up in their own drunken dancing to notice her blink and frown before fearfully pushing against the men when they would not let her out.

Secondly, House's scotch ran out.

It was this reason alone that House figured he'd get up and help.

Really.

Even as he was convincing himself that the tightening of his fist around his glass was due to a loss of motor functions from way too much liquor in his system and the deepening of his frown was caused only from lack of sleep those past few days, House still rose quickly from his place in the corner and gripped his cane forcefully before striding to her side amidst the pulsating bodies and muffled whoops of laughter.

He coughed and tried to nudge his way to Cameron, but was pushed away by some dick from oncology. He'd have Wilson get the ass fired. As it was, he dealt a hard whack to the back of the knee, enjoying the loud howl as the man sank to the ground, screaming obscenities. The other two didn't seem to notice, instead moving even closer to his _former_ employee and rubbing their crotches against her hips. Cameron was watching him curiously, though she was still smacking the chests that blocked her way out.

Rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath about the lack of respect in subordinates, House jammed his cane three times on one man's toes and kneed the other in the 'nads. He'd probably feel that last one in his thigh tomorrow, but for now, he was content in watching the bastards writhe in pain on the floor.

Well.

That was fun.

Cameron smiled at him gratefully and beckoned him to follow her into the hallway, away from the deafening music and the stifling heat.

"Thanks," she said as soon as the door closed behind him.

House shrugged and leaned against the wall to observe her. Besides her flushed cheeks and heaving chest, she looked fine.

"I didn't really think they'd hurt me or anything," she explained, and House wondered for a moment why she thought she had to justify their actions to him. "They were just drunk and…yeah." She trailed off and gestured aimlessly towards the party.

"I don't know if you missed that class in kindergarten, but generally, smacking one's penis against a woman without her consent is regarded as a big no-no in most civilized cultures."

Cameron winced at his choice of words, but nodded in agreement and stared at her shoes.

"Anyway," House declared, "you looked uncomfortable enough to warrant rescuing. Damsel in distress and all that."

She chuckled. "If you're my knight in shining armor, I'd be hard-pressed to identify your noble steed or the sunset you're supposed to carry me off into."

He pointed to his cane. "Steed." He pointed to the exit of the hospital. "Sunset."

And then he mentally smacked himself in the forehead for basically inviting her "out."

Cameron caught the thinly veiled invitation but chose to ignore it. No sense making things more uncomfortable than they already were. And anyway, the only place she would be going in the next few minutes would be to her car and then to her bed. She was beat.

"I should get going."

House nodded sharply. Still, neither made a move to leave. He couldn't speak for Cameron, but he was too interested in examining her eyes. They looked…confused, for one, but more importantly, they looked angry. He wondered why. Finally, he shook his head softly and turned away.

A sharp tug on his arm stopped his retreat.

A sharp slap on his cheek stopped his questioning glare.

Cameron grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulling flush against her body. House noticed the anger was now dancing in her eyes. She wrenched his ear down next to her mouth. She was a little surprised that he wasn't resisting.

"How dare you," she whispered.

He pulled away sharply.

"How dare I what?" he growled. "I just fuckin' saved you from some horny douche bags!"

"How dare you play with me. How dare you tease me everyday, playing hot and cold. How dare you use me with your little games. How dare you insult me. How dare you."

His mouth dropped open but she wasn't finished.

"And finally," she whispered again, "how dare you make me fall in love with you."

With the grace of a queen she pulled his lips to hers, somehow managing to kiss him deeply and yet barely touch him. The resentment of a thousand sarcastic jabs, the rage of spending nights dreaming of his fingers dancing across her skin, and the pain of loving him from a far was all passed from her lips to his.

Cameron hoped he understood now.

He did.

She drew her head back, gazing at her ex-boss from underneath heavy lidded eyes, a small smirk playing on her swollen mouth.

"Just wanted to know what that felt like," she said cheekily before heading off into the sunset.

House just watched her go.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Oh jeebus, I am the most evilest person in the world! I'm sooo sorry I left y'all hanging like that. I am so grateful for all the responses I've gotten; thank you A TON! The positive feedback convinced me to write a second (and final) chapter, so let me know whatcha think. Merry Christmas, everyone::kisses::**

* * *

It took House exactly two minutes before he could remember how to walk and then he was off. Mentally cursing himself for being such a dumbass, he limped as fast as he could to the parking lot, praying she was still there.

A blast of cool air hit him in the face, and he shivered slightly before scanning the lot. In his peripheral vision, he saw headlights coming his way. His heart leapt to his throat.

"Cameron!" he yelled. House gave up on his cane and hopped to the curb. "Cameron, wait!" She was almost to him. She'd stop. She must've seen him.

Gravel crunched, wind blew, and as Allison Cameron reached him, House's eyes widened where her wheels did not stop turning.

She wasn't going to stop.

As he watched dumbly, Cameron merely slowed and locked eyes with the man she'd come to love. Smiling softly, she gave him a wink before accelerating once more and turning onto the street.

For the second time that night, House found himself watching her go. Only this time, he knew, there was no amount of chasing that would make her stay.

* * *

In this world, there is nothing more jarring then waking up in more pain than when you went to sleep. It is perhaps one of the worst feelings to open your eyes and immediately wish to be dead. Your day can be determined by your emotions upon waking up in the morning.

House knew his day was going to suck.

His thigh was throbbing, even more so than usual, and his hangover nearly brought him to his figurative knees. And then there was the odd, tightening feeling in his chest.

Fuckin' Cameron.

He'd stayed outside in the cold for an hour, staring at the pavement and replaying the events in his head:

_"How dare you."_

_"Love."_

_Kiss._

_Gone._

He swallowed a Vicodin for his leg, put on a pot of coffee for his hangover and punched a wall for his heart. Counterproductive, yes, but it helped, in a childish sort of way. House didn't know what the fuck was going on, but he wished it would go away.

Tuesdays, he decided, were worse than Mondays. On Mondays, at least you expect it to suck. But Tuesday was the day that you actually had to deal with all the crap that had inevitably transpired the previous day. Tuesdays blow.

Apparently the weather agreed with his diagnosis; gusts of wind barreled into House as soon as he stepped out of his building. He sighed, pulled his hat lower on his head and walked slowly to the corner to wait for a bus. No way was he riding the bike in the weather. He was dumb, but he wasn't stupid. Paradoxical, but, House figured, given his actions the night before, very accurate.

The wheels of the bus screeched to a halt, aggravating House's hangover further. A woman that looked vaguely like Cameron stepped onto the pavement and gave him a pitying look; he glared in return. An ad on the side of the bus showed a girl laughing in a restaurant. The caption read: "How can you dare pass up a meal at Alfonzo's?" He instantly thought of Cameron's accusations. Groaning, he struggled up the steps and into a seat, its stuffing poking out through a hole in the cushion.

He couldn't stop thinking about her.

Blah.

Tuesdays were definitely worse.

* * *

He took it back. Wednesdays were even more awful than Tuesdays. Exactly in the middle of the week and exactly when everyone schedules everything. Something about the security of the middle.

The sixth perspective duckling stomped out of House's office, ripping off the glasses the diagnostician had correctly declared fakes designed to make him look intelligent. Cuddy watched the man storm away before pulling open the glass door and scrutinizing her best doctor.

"That guy has probably collapsed into tears in the elevator and you don't look remotely smug. Should I be alarmed?"

"If he's bawling, it's his own fault," House muttered. "And this is my new 'smug' look. It's very similar to my 'someone kill me now' face."

She took a seat on his couch and picked at her nails. "Interviews that bad?"

"If someone to a machine gun to all these morons, Charles Darwin would breathe a sigh of relief for humanity in his grave."

"How many more applicants do you have?"

House shuffled through the numerous folders spread across his desktop. "Seventeen. Plus a very promising discussion with the man that sells me my newspaper."

"Sounds exciting." He grunted and Cuddy stood to leave. "Just give them a chance," she added. "Hiring someone new doesn't mean you've forgotten Cameron."

House blinked and she was gone.

* * *

House was sensing a pattern. Thursdays were somehow even more depressing than any of the previous days. Perhaps it was that he could not stop thinking about what Cuddy had said. Or that he'd actually found a decent hematologist by the third interview of the afternoon, who actually looked unsettlingly like Cameron from behind. Or the steady sheet of sleet that pounded against his windows, waking him up at the crack of eight. Either way, a cloud of gloominess was hovering over him, despite many attempts from both Wilson and Cuddy to cheer him up.

He was seeing her everywhere. Every hand on his shoulder felt like hers, and he'd taken to parking on the street so he didn't have to hear her tires crunching. He was on sensory overload and it was slowly driving him crazy. At first, he'd chalked it up to being a psychosomatic reaction to finding out deep Cameron's feelings for him actually ran. By 7:37 P.M. on Thursday, House had given up on that theory and mulled over the puzzle further. At 9:40, he found himself tossing around the concept of love. He called Wilson at 9:42.

"House, you don't believe in aliens," James sighed. He was lying on his friend's couch, staring at the cracked ceiling while House thought aloud.

"Doesn't mean they don't exist."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "If you insisted I come over so we could debate the existence of spatial life as a reason to explain your obsession with a former employee…can I at least make coffee?"

House resumed banging on the keys of his piano in response.

"At the risk of sounding trite, have you even considered the possibility that you might be pining over lost love?"

"This is not a Shakespearian tragedy, Wilson," he snorted. "I am not _pining_."

"Fine. Bad choice of words. But you know what I meant."

"I'm not through with aliens yet," House said, plunking out 'I Love You, You Love Me' on the keyboard.

Wilson got up to make the coffee.

* * *

He spent Friday in the clinic, avoiding patients and occupying his mind with General Hospital reruns.

_Love_.

A fly was flitting around his head. House swatted at it and gave up on the portable television. The fly continued to flit, undeterred by the barrage of attacks sent his way. House gave up, and watched it land near his foot.

_Love_.

So far, Friday was holding steady as the most miserable yet. The first of his new duckies moved into Cameron's old desk. His leg was killing him. He was tired.

And he was in love with her.

It had taken her memorable departure and three torturous days before he gave up the fight and let the feelings flood his body and soak into his heart.

He felt like he was drowning.

She was gone. It didn't matter if he shouted his love from a rooftop, she was still gone.

Better to just deny her existence and move on.

* * *

"There is one flaw in your argument," Wilson stated as he pointed his fork towards his friend. "You _know_ where she is. Cameron hasn't disappeared into the fog; she left you a forwarding address, for chrissakes!"

"It was a figurative 'gone,' Jimmy," House muttered.

They were sitting in Alfonzo's, waiting for the waiter to bring them their entrees.

"Oh, shut up!" Wilson was saying. "I knew you were dramatic, but this is ridiculous." He threw down his napkin and motioned for the check. "Here's a tip: either chase after her, or draw yourself a figurative bridge and get the fuck over it! God!"

With that, the oncologist stomped away, leaving House to foot the bill and stew in his own self-pity.

Saturdays. Saturdays were by far the cruelest.

* * *

He gave up trying to measure the crappiness of the weekdays about two hours into the trip. It shouldn't be taking two hours to drive from New Jersey to New York. But of course, that was his luck.

House had been stuck behind a green minivan for at least forty miles. The driver was being a menopausal bitch, or she was taking out the stress of parading herself around as a glorified soccer mom on him, but any attempt made to pass was immediately rejected. He was stuck. Behind a Christian, no less, judging by the 'Jesus Loves You, Sinner' bumper sticker. How ironic. A Christian with road rage on a Sunday evening.

House glanced at his watch. 9:45. He figured it would take him another hour to even get into the City, and then there was traffic and parking and actually _finding_ her. Groaning, House mentally kicked himself before laying on the horn once more. Virgin Mary responded with a middle finger stuck out the window.

Bitch.

He'd told himself it was just a quick stop at the store for some more scotch. He'd ended up on the highway. In traffic. Wonderful.

At 11:52, a man with a cane stumped into New York Presbyterian Hospital. Nurse Walker knew this because she had three minutes left in her shift. Hell, her career. She was retiring and moving to Vegas, dammit. In three minutes.

"Where can I find Allison Cameron?" House asked.

Nurse Walker sighed and tore her eyes from the clock. "Sorry? You'll have to speak up."

"I said, where can I find Allison Cameron?"

"Well, there's no need to yell. Spell it, please," she droned. Two minutes.

How does one not know how to spell Cameron? He glared but complied. The nurse's fingers tapped in the letters. Slowly.

"We don't seem to have anyone by that name. Do you know what ward she's in?"

"Immunology. She arrived Tuesday."

"Hmm. There's an Alison Kramer in maternity. Perhaps you muddled the name up?"

"No," he growled, frustrated. "Cameron. Immunology. Tuesday."

"You might try Mercy Hospital. It's right down the street."

"She's not a patient! She's a doctor!"

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't help you anymore. Shift just ended."

House watched incredulously as the nurse shrugged on her jacket and shuffled out the door. No one replaced her at the desk.

"House?"

He looked up at the bank of elevators to his left and to the voice. Her voice.

Cameron's expression was one of shock, confusion and curiosity. She took a step in his direction.

He couldn't move.

_"How dare you."_

_"Love."_

_Kiss._

_Gone._

Images flashed across his brain. Her crying in the chapel. Her lying to Cuddy for him. Her lips on his. His heart clenched the way it had when he'd watched her headlights disappear. His hand pounded like it had when he'd punched the wall. The steady buzz of a fly was drowning out any sound.

And for the first time in his life, he was speechless.

"What are you doing here?" she asked softly. He lifted his eyes to hers. Green. Brows knit. Concern.

His mouth wasn't working. He could only stare.

And then, his hands were on her cheeks, holding them as her kissed her deeply. He felt her fingers in his hair, her body pressed so perfectly against his. House pulled back to examine her, to commit ever freckle to memory. The clock behind her read 12:02.

It made sense that this was happening on a Monday.

Everyone likes Mondays.

* * *


End file.
